Come Back To Me
by snapslikethis
Summary: Why should she go, after all, when it seemingly made no difference to him? Why couldn't he snap out of it? But, she told herself, even if it-her presence-didn't matter to him at all, it mattered to her. It would matter to them both when he came back to her (she had to believe that he would come back to her).
1. Chapter 1

A crisp _pop_ shattered the bitter, lonely silence that had stretched on for hours-at least, was probably hours, he wasn't really sure. In a different set of circumstances James might have recalled that sound and its meaning, taken an interest in what would happen next, but tonight, he chose to ignore it. Something solid draped over his shoulders, a familiar weight settled on the frozen ground next to him, another weight over his legs, and something small and tight-an arm, probably, wrapped around his lower back. All of this made no difference to him, however. The only thing that reached his consciousness was warmth that was slowly seeping in and replacing the numbness he didn't know he'd been feeling. While he instinctively wanted to lean into that warmth, the warmth that was synonymous with her (because, really, was there a difference, weren't they the same?), he refrained. If he had been more like his usual self, James would have marveled that she knew where to find him, knew to bring not only his cloak, but a blanket to boot, that she left her-their-warm bed in the middle of the night to sit in a god forsaken field full of dead people. He would have turned to her and clung to her and loved her and married her.

Currently, however, James _wasn't_ his usual self, not at all and as a result he felt, if anything- although he sensed the unfairness of this feeling-not gratitude, but resentment at the disruption of the blissful oblivion-the numbness-he had been feeling, which is to say, nothing at all. He didn't speak (not that he could, even if the inclination struck). He didn't lean in, or turn his head, or acknowledge her presence in any way. He didn't have the energy to give a damn about anything but the bottle in his hand-he hadn't forgotten _that_, after all- the recently disturbed grown before him and, most importantly, what lie there. If he allowed himself to think, he'd have to face the futility of his actions. Because he _knew_ that wallowing was serving no one or that mourning couldn't bring them back. He _would_ face it, he would. And he would marry this fucking fantastic girl. But he knew that he couldn't have her warmth without acknowledging their deaths, and he wasn't ready-not tonight, not yet. So instead, he kept his vigil, same as last night and the many nights before. Four words reverberated in his mind in time with his heart, blocking out all other thoughts and the feelings that accompanied them: c_ome back to me, come back to me, come back to me_.


	2. Chapter 2

She woke up, cold and alone-the usual, anymore-and cursed under her breath. Her actions were automatic, practiced as she rolled out of bed and began piling on layers of clothes. Lily tried to stifle the resentful thoughts stirring, but wasn't entirely successful. _Why should she go_, after all, _when it seemingly made no difference to him? Why couldn't he snap out of it_? But, she told herself, even if it-her presence-didn't matter to him at all, it mattered to her. It would matter to them both when he came back to her (she had to believe that he would come back to her). When she was fully dressed she snatched his cloak, the blanket and on the turn of her boot apparated to that god forsaken field full of dead people.

He was completely stationary, back stiff, ramrod straight, staring ahead (seeing and unseeing at the same time, Lily supposed)-a very diligent but completely unnecessary sentinel. Any lingering resentment dissolved into pity (his hands were trembling from the cold) and affection (only James could keep his posture when completely pissed). She wrapped the cloak over his icy frame, gave one shoulder a squeeze and kept it there for support as she lowered herself to the ground. She covered them both with the blanket and wrapped an arm around his middle. She refrained, however, from leaning into him as she was supposed to be the strong one here, and (strong or not) she couldn't bear it if he didn't reciprocate.

Lily said nothing. Not for lack of anything to say, but because she had learned (a painful lesson) that not even she could not elicit a response. For thirteen long days (and longer nights), since they received the news that his parents had passed away, James had been mute. All manner of shouts, pleas, jokes fell upon deaf ears for all the good they did. James did not (or would not, or could not, she hadn't decided) respond. Lily was okay with silence, normally, even from him. She had been pleasantly surprised to find that away from their boisterous friends-Sirius, mostly-they could spend hours stretched out in lovely, warm, companionable silence. In those moments it scared her a bit, actually, how comfortable they were, and it wasn't a far stretch for her to imagine fifty years of quiet, peaceful Sunday mornings in bed with this boy.

But that boy-her boy-was missing, and Lily didn't know how to bring him back (or if such a thing was possible). She had stopped talking, trying to force a response, an acknowledgement, anything, and instead, she let him wallow. She fought off Order members, even Dumbledore, who were well intentioned but wanted to intervene, kindly telling them to fuck off and let him-them-alone. The boys, she let in, and they took shifts to give her a break. They brought her cigarettes and take away and music-anything to fill the silence that had once been so wonderful but was now so oppressive and cold. It was that silence, now, that threatened to be her undoing. For nearly two weeks, she hadn't heard his laughter, his teasing, his whispered promises, his groans-nothing, and she tried not to drown in that nothingness, but it picked at her and threatened to shatter her into a million pieces.

She wouldn't break, though, and she would wait for him (of course she would). The stakes were high but she could not walk away from this boy (her boy) and his smirks and laughter and caresses and ideals and promises. She believed (she had to believe) that one day soon he _would _lean in, he would speak, and she would be damned if she would miss _that. _He would do the same for her, she knew in her bones, and to hell if he wasn't going to come back (even if he wasn't the same, she had fallen in love with him once and would do it again) and they weren't going to win the war and she would marry him. He would want her again and need her again and the world would be right.

But that wasn't going to be tonight, not yet, and she accepted that. She said nothing, and instead buried her head into his shoulder and wrapped her other arm around him (no longer caring if she received in kind). She hoped (prayed) that her message would reach him, that even if he couldn't register it, he would know that she was there and wasn't going to leave. She sat for another night and kept vigil over her boy while he kept vigil over his dead parents. Their hearts beat the same mantra: _come back to me, come back to me, come back to me_.


End file.
